38. Cross

“Do I even like these?” Leni asks between her second and third giant-eared cookie. White sugar sticks to her upper lip, and her pupils resemble those of a hungry cat with a one legged mouse in its crosshairs as she looks up at me, expectant.

I resist the urge to laugh.

Voice cutting through the crescendoing symphony from a movie I’ve seen, but never really watched, floating from speakers above, she asks, “Cross?”

She could compel me to wage war with Olympus with that one word.

If she ever adds please, I’ll take on the Titans too.

Rounded plastic juts into my shoulder blade as I sit back in my chair. “I don’t know. Do you like them?”

Her mouth curls into a smile as she examines the confection on her family-sized plate. “Obviously yes, I’m just waiting for you to inform me I swore off sugar in my past life and that’s why this tastes like compressed happiness.” Another greedy bite, and the mouse loses an ear.

“You’re smiling,” she points out.

Even though my stomach twists uncomfortably at the implication of her words, I force my smile wider.

She seems to like it, judging by the stretch of pink on her cheeks.

I picked Florida for sandy beaches and palm trees and waves, but once Leni spotted the Happiest Place on Earth billboard, she deemed it a crucial stop. I imagined roller coasters, fireworks, pictures with oversized gloved rodents.

This is our third bakery.

It’s a day of bucking expectations. I’m in a dark green shirt and jeans, per her insistence. And per mine, in perfect compliment with her miserably short, painfully frilly sundress, she wears a silver gift shop crown.

A crown, not a tiara.

For a queen. Not a fucking princess.

Appearing dazed, Leni rids the mouse of his other ear, and nose, and neck. Her frost eyes slide shut, rapture softening her features.

I swallow hard, pinch the seam of my pocket on my thigh. “You’re on a sugar high.”

Innocent eyes peer at me. “Is it dangerous?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll see you through it.” I push my plate toward her. “Have mine too.”

“You don’t like it?” She’s already reaching for the double chocolate brownie.

I shuffle our deck of princess themed cards on the table. “I like this more.”

“Fondling cards?” A smirk.

Pyro. “I like seeing you eat. When we met, it was difficult to get you to eat. Violence made you sick, and I …” I look down at my hands to confess. “There was plenty of violence.”

I had wanted her to see it, wanted to show her how terrified she should be of me. I’d wanted to force her to run because I wasn’t strong enough to let go.

“Are you ever going to deal?”

“Are you ever going to make a bet?” I retort playfully.

Another smirk as she peels a single dollar from her stack and plays it. In a matter of days, she’s learned every card game I’m versed in, and subsequently beaten me. I fear the chess board I’ve ordered will be my whipping ground.

“I have my eye on a rather large purchase,” she informs me seriously. “And I can’t risk losing it. It’s time sensitive.”

“What incentive do I have to deal if I can’t win any of my money back?”

“You said I have to bet the minimum. Technically, you could win all your cash back that way, slowly chipping away at it, hand after laborious hand. Of course, this is assuming you can actually win that many.” She arches an eyebrow in challenge.

I adore when she gets technical. “We’d be here all day.”

“As if that’s my intention.” She’s beaming again, looking straight at me and my chest compresses, inflates dramatically.

Is she interested in spending time with me?

She bites off a chunk of choc-ageddon, and moans, eyes fluttering into the back of her head.

A pin pops my bubble.

No. Not me, it’s the sugar. She wants to stay and indulge.

Then indulge we will.

“Bet big,” I say a bit sharply, dealing her cards. “I’ll buy you the ice cream cake.”

Leni lays down a bigger bet and I raise in return. “How’d you know?” she asks halfway through the hand. “What I wanted?”

I allow myself a few moments just to memorize her, the sweep of her eyes, the curve of her mouth, and the curtain of silky white hair before I wrench a half smile on my face. “As if anyone who’s ever seen a cake made of ice cream hasn’t immediately wondered exactly how it works. You mentioned time sensitive, and only three are left in the case behind me. Or you could be referencing the melt factor, which is also time sensitive.”

“Both,” she confirms, lips pursed, eyes gleaming. “It’s unfair how good you are at that.”

“It’s my job.”

“Almost like a spy or something,” Leni muses, grinning widely as she peels off bits of royal icing from her cookie with her nail.

My bones tighten in excruciating pleasure. She remembers. Every day, she remembers what I tell her, about me, about the Blackguard, the realm.

“You’re the same,” I tell her, upping the bet once again, chewing my lip. “Tell me, right now, what do I desire?”

“What would a deadly immortal spy want?” Her eyes narrow at me and the textbook head tilt makes me hard in a theme park of ducks and mice. “You already have power.”

“Yes.”

“And money.”

I spread my hands in mock apology. “Too much.”

“And no discernable sweet tooth.”

Wrong. “I have restraint.”

She frowns slightly. “And yet you can battle the temptation of an ice cream cake. Which means you have everything you could want.” Her gaze drifts to my mouth, lingers. “Except maybe …”

She jerks suddenly, attention darting from me to her lap. Pink hits her cheeks.

Tension shoots through me like a barbed whip. “What’s wrong?”

Stop, she mouths, fingers lifted on the arm of her chair. Under blue lashes, she flashes me a bright pink smile, flips her cards face down on the table.

I drag in an unsteady breath. “What is it?” A memory?

No. she’s smiling. Could it be a good one? Could she be remembering more?

Leaning across the table, she places a finger to her lips and softly orders, “Listen.”

We’re closer than we’ve been since …

Since she told me she loved me.

Since I didn’t say it back.

She smells the same, like honeysuckle and sugar, as she wiggles in her seat with a nervous, excited I’m-doing-something-I-shouldn’t-be smile.

The table next to our right is talking about us, murmuring things like real hair and so tall. And is she a princess? He can’t be a prince. All I can focus on is the fact that Leni hasn’t flinched, or frozen. Hasn’t recoiled. She’s here, invading my space, smelling like wildest fantasy, completely at ease.

I couldn’t be harder if she put her mouth on my shaft.

In a bold—needy—move, I draw her chair closer to mine, and Gods Above, she scoots in even closer, her hand absently resting on my knee.

I don’t cover her fingers with mine the way I want to, not trusting myself to let go.

Awful tattooslides from the gossips.

The words slam into my chest, like the heel of a boot, and grind gravel and glass into me.

“Do it,” she whispers, tone edged with spikes, tempting me beyond imagining. Nails lacquered neon orange bite into my thigh, three inches south of where she shot me.

“Come on.” Her hand glides up to my ribs, small palm pressing, as her breath tickles my throat. “Please? I love when you do it.”

Effortlessly, she has me.

Snares me. In a shop of bubbles and light and pop music, I lightly release the gift I’ve hated for most of my life.

And maybe it’s because Leni is so deliciously close or I’ve had my power on a suffocating leash, but the rush comes strong and fast. Hard.

Lights shatter.

Someone screams.

The entire bakery fills with black.

Leni laughs.

Happiness sinks cold metal between my ribs.